


False Flight

by Patmos



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dystopian Society Poorly Disguised as Fantasy, F/F, F/M, Feminist Themes, M/M, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Slave Themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patmos/pseuds/Patmos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif Ellena Morthan is a knight of the magical country Halind, and she does not appreciate being taken captive by slavers of the starklands. In a world where every life is precious, Ellena strives to balance her survival against the lives of enemies. She hopes that even this unfortunate event will have a silver lining, and perhaps it does in the form of the outland girls held captive alongside her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unfortunate Start

**Author's Note:**

> When I woke up this morning, I did not realize my day off would be devoted to writing this surprise story bunny. Thanks, brain!

_A cherubic face,_ they said, to her disgust. _A cherubic face amid wild, brown hair._

“And look at those eyes! Have you ever seen the like?” That one was a boy, barely old enough to hold a spear and know how to use it.

“Shut it,” came the gruff voice of the elder warrior beside the boy. “Leave off the merchandise.”

“Like fire,” the boy whispered, still in awe of the girl they’d caught. “Like shifting fire.”

Ellena glared at her guards through the bars, utterly incensed over the events that had occurred the night before. These men who called themselves knights were nothing more than backwater savages, ambushing her while she slept. Cowards. They didn’t know the meaning of the word “knight”.

The older man tugged the boy away from staring, at least. Ellena sat and scratched irritably at her hip, marvelling at their ignorance in putting her in common peasant garments, covered in fleas. The skirt wasn’t so bad, but the corset was murder. Imagine, trying to “pretty her up” like she was some livestock that just needed a scrub down before auction. The second she was out of the cage with a sword in her hand, all their right hands were coming off. She was of a mind to make a halter for her horse that jangled with phalanges.

 _If_ she could get her horse back. _If_ she could reclaim her sword and armor. She might have to actually take a few lives, precious as they were, to gain back the latter. She could see even from here the way the men had divided up her armor by rank. The quartermaster was wearing her bracers. The top knight was in her greaves, though he’d had to add some leather to the straps to make them fit. Their lord was polishing her breastplate, sat behind the campfire. He had her helmet, too, though it was too small for any of them save perhaps the boy, and no one was going to give it to him.

She was heartily glad of that. Her helmet was her life, her badge as a knight. No one else but a knight of Foxhall-on-the-Lake would wear a black helmet crested with sacred otter fur and bluedove tail feathers. Her jaw tensed with fury just having it out of reach, but if she escaped, she was going for her helmet first. No stopping to maim or kill. Just beeline it.

“Lady?” The hesitant voice was from the other side of the big cage mounted on the back of a wagon. Her anger had driven the rest of the captives to sit themselves at the other end from her. She turned her sullen face on them, and the girl almost drew back. When Ellena didn’t rage or growl, the girl seemed to take courage enough to continue. “Lady, is it true you’re from Foxhall?”

The girl was timid, to be sure, but there was a small spark of hope in her eyes. Ellena hated that spark, because it meant the girl saw hope in her. She might think big about escaping, but it was statistically unlikely, and the percentage rate of success went down the more people without combat skills were put in her care. Better to squash that hope now than deal with whining later.

“Look,” she whispered bluntly, for the benefit of the girls only, for all the others were watching her raptly. “I’m from Foxhall, yeah, but I’m in just as much hot water as you. There’s nothing, not even me, that can get us out of this situation, unless a battalion of my fellows breaks us out. And that isn’t gonna happen. What’s gonna happen is we’re gonna be taken to whatever stinking auction house these bastards use, and we’re gonna be sold to the highest bidder.”

She watched their faces fall and sighed, turning her back to them. With luck, her buyer would realize what she was and ransom her back to Foxhall. Or, if she acted innocent and worthless, she’d be ill-supervised and find a way to escape. If she did have a chance on the road, though, she was taking it, and she’d leave these girls behind, as much as it would wound her honor. Females outside of Foxhall and Halind were generally sheep, raised as such and given as much credit. They would only slow her down and get them all maimed, or even killed.

Well, it was unlikely for them to be killed. These men wouldn’t get a profit if they lost all their product. Women were valuable, out in the starklands. Wife auctions were sometimes the only place to get one that was healthy, and most women went through them at least once in their lives, unless noble born or rich. Human life was too precious to waste, and reproduction was a priority, especially in the starklands where numerous children increased odds of success. A man in the starklands had two wishes for his children: Enough boys to work, and enough girls to sell to make up for it in the bad times.

It was a system that disgusted Ellena, even more so since it seemed to work rather well. Populations in the starklands were on the rise, though they weren’t yet a threat to Halind, the most civilized country on the continent of Yusea. Ellena breathed deep and touched her brow, then her heart, and lastly her lips, the salute of respect for the Monarchs in Foxhall. Intelligence, Love, Generosity, and above all, the Hand of Creativity to be guided by these traits. It was for her intelligence that she had been educated as a warrior, her generosity that had made her a knight of Their Majesties, and her love of country that had made her volunteer for recon work out in the starklands. She did not regret it, but she did wish she’d been more creative about the whole mess.

One of the girls was crying. Out here on the borderlands, concepts of culture bled over a little more. Probably these girls had been raised more romantically than the ones they’d see in the heart of Gorbvil or Teracka. Ellena sighed, hoping the blow to her helmet had not damaged it too much. She’d really like to get out of here.

The boy brought them gruel with dried fruit and a little meat in it, still staring at her the entire time. Ellena growled at him until he left and an older man took his watch, and then she waited while the girls ate first. She watched them quite carefully in the dimming light for pupil change, flushing, or excessive fatigue. The last thing she wanted was to be drugged, and she’d even switched bowls with one of them to keep away the possibility of her being the exception. Only when twenty minutes passed and none of them showed any of the signs did she dig in, not caring if it was cold.

After that, they were given ragged blankets to ward off the night chill. The girls clumped together to sleep, but Ellena sat where she could see the stars, whistling soft bird calls at the sky. She listened patiently, but by the time she nodded off she heard no reply.

*

In the morning she was awoken by the noise of the guards bringing breakfast. Ellena frowned at the thin ale and dumped it out when no one was looking, but nibbled the handful of nuts while she waited on the girls to finish eating. They were her canaries, so to speak. When they proved the gruel safe, she ate that, too.

“What I wouldn’t give for some hot chocolate and some crepes,” she muttered to herself, after the cage-wagon had started moving. The guard walking nearest her barked a laugh, and she gave him a withering glare.

“A sullen tart like you won’t be getting any fancy food if you keep acting so ugly,” he admonished her, pointing a finger right at her face. “A man wants a wife who’ll be sweet and quiet.”

She bared her teeth, all neat and even, and mostly clean-looking -- a look Astor called her shark grin. “Did you know that it takes the same amount of pressure to bite through a human finger as it does a carrot?” she asked him sweetly, then snapped her teeth at his pointing digit. He yelped and pulled his hand away. She smirked, chin up, then pointedly ignored him. He didn’t pursue the matter when the other girls giggled quietly from their side of the cage. Ellena took note of his discipline.

By midday there were whispers among the guards about her being a demon, which soothed her soul a little. The more they feared her, the less chance they’d take it into their heads to molest her. Starklanders, especially slavers, were a notoriously superstitious bunch, and while they wouldn’t hesitate to capture and sell anything “supernatural”, they weren’t going to risk bringing down its wrath through abuse.

That one girl that had approached her the night before looked to be gathering her courage, Ellena noted. Suspense was never her favorite element, so she sighed and looked right at the girl. “What is it?”

The girl’s lips thinned, but she spoke her question anyway. “Have you really had chocolate before?”

Of all the things to ask, that one surprised Ellena. She chuckled quietly to herself, nodding with amusement. “Aye, I have.”

Some of the girls tittered at each other, and the image struck her as very birdlike. Their spokesperson smiled and moved closer, scooting over the rough floorboards in her skirt more expertly than Ellena could have. “What’s it like, chocolate? I’ve only ever heard rumors.”

“What’s your name?” Ellena asked first, mostly because she was tired of calling her “the girl” in her head. She received a blush and a whispered, “Jasperine.”

Ellena settled her back against the back wall of the cage and smiled, arms crossed over her small bosom. “Well, Jasperine, chocolate is possibly the best substance I’ve ever tasted. Sometimes it’s sweet and smooth, earthy and creamy, but sometimes it’s bitter and dark, and even that is amazing.”

The lot of them sighed with longing. Funny how a person could find positive emotions in terrible situations. It made her smile to see them like that, and for a moment she allowed herself to imagine them free and going back to Foxhall with her. It made her sad when she stopped. 

“I might never taste it again,” she muttered in a moment of depression. After that, the girls didn’t bother her the rest of the day.

Over the next couple days, though, the girls grew more bold around her. They peppered her now and then with questions about Foxhall-on-the-Lake, the capital of Halind, that great, magical country where everyone had access to chocolate, medicine, clean water, and protection. And as a consequence, she learned more about them.

“Is it true that anyone can get schooling there?” Jasperine asked, finger-combing Ellena’s hair. The girl had nice hands and a few pock-marks on her dark face from a childhood illness that had claimed three of her siblings. Her family owned a dairy farm near Tennes, a border town. She’d been on her honeymoon with a merchant’s lad from the town, heading over to another town called Vespers to seek their fortunes, when a lone wife-hunter had stopped them. After threatening her new husband, the man had walked away with her without a fight from the lad. Jasperine had admitted to her last night that she didn’t even fancy boys.

“Anyone willing to study hard, yeah,” Ellena said, soothed by the attention. “The Monarchs take in anyone, providing they can keep up.”

“Is it very difficult?” This from Cordy, a pale little thing barely fifteen. She was a smart one, Ellena had noticed, and was apt at hiding things from the guards, like a nail she’d patiently wiggled up out of a floorboard at night, hidden from sight by the girl-pile. Cordy was the daughter of a farm laborer, the most common among them, and had been kept a secret in her parents’ home all her life, for serf’s daughters were technically property of their lord. Her discovery had been an accident; she’d fallen through a weak section of ceiling when she’d been hiding in the attic from the tax-collector. She didn’t talk about it much, but everyone could see the faint shackle-marks around her wrists and the branded mark of an orphan on the inside of her forearm.

Ellena mused over the question. “It depends. One must be willing to learn. Every student is evaluated often, to accommodate learning styles and subject matter. The earlier you go into it, the better you are at getting into advanced courses. If you’re really clever, though, they don’t waste time keeping you in lower classes. They give you the basics, and then keep testing you until you reach your limits of self-study, then move you on. The system is complicated, but well-tended. It’s more difficult to be left behind than to advance.”

Basilica -- Basil, for short -- sighed dramatically and flopped onto her back, gazing up at the sky. “I don’t care about schooling,” she enthused, though quietly. “I just want to be an archer.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, Basil, but even warriors in Foxhall are educated,” Ellena explained, amused by the girl’s rashness. “You can’t even touch a sword or a bow unless you are fully aware of the mechanics of it, from the gathering of materials all the way to advanced techniques. And the philosophy! Every warrior must be completely aware of the consequences of applying their weapon to another living thing.”

Basil’s lips thinned stubbornly, but Ellena could see that she was mulling over this information. The red-head was the bastard of a noble’s son with a dim kitchen drudge. The result had been Basil in all her crazy, bull-headed glory. As a child she’d been kept in the nursery with all the other dependent children, but when her erstwhile father had finally settled down with a wife and produced healthy, legitimate children, Basil and the rest of the bastards had been sold. Repressed for so long and on the cusp of womanhood, she’d rebelled massively and gone through several masters before being dumped on their current caretakers.

Jasperine was braiding Ellena’s hair now. She looked over to the last two girls, who seemed to have bonded despite no previous acquaintance before this. Katta was a shy, quiet girl, seemingly resigned to her fate, perhaps a little dim, though no one knew what was in her head. She never spoke. She was constantly guarded by Smitter, a strong, big girl who should have been wielding a hammer or plough. Smitter had a delicate touch, though, and treated Katta like a princess. Neither had been at all forthcoming about their pasts or dreams, and Ellena worried about them.

She also hated herself for getting attached. All odds were that at the end of their journey she’d never see any of them again. She’d given up on the concept of rescue. They were out of the borderlands now; the landscape around them was now riddled with overgrown demon-holes. In the distance she could just see the north edge of the Dead Forest, populated entirely by dead trees that leaned a little, all in the same direction, for hundreds of kilometers.

This was well and truly the starklands, and her skin itched with horror. She knew what had happened here, centuries ago, and it rankled her morals. Never should the weapons of a nation be more powerful than their good sense and decency.

The road was higher than the landscape here, following a long, mounded hill, built by the people that came Before. Gutters to either side were well-maintained, and filled with fetid water and razorleaf cattails. Even if her fellows were following there was no way for them to approach without being spotted. She tore her eyes away from the depressing scene and went back to looking at the sky, and she let Jasperine lean against her shoulder. Despite all attempts to dissuade her, Jasperine was stubborn with her hope that Ellena was the key to freedom. It was a shame to think of her heart breaking later.

Ellena’s habit of looking to the sky paid off the next afternoon. She’d been tracking the progress of a vulture circling high above. Or at least she’d thought it was a vulture, until it began to come lower and the silhouette resolved itself a little more. It was a bit too long to be a vulture. The wing-shape was all wrong, too. They were huge, wide, and tapered farther along the body, and barely visible was a long, straight streamer trailing out of the tail feathers. Her heart jumped as she realized she was looking at a griffon, and her soul cried out for Astor. He flew a griffon. Was he tracking them?

But then the birdcat circled and flew off towards the northern mountains and her heart plummeted like a stone. Maybe it was just a wild one, out hunting. Had to be, really. There was no way Astor would have been able to track her all this way. He wasn’t even on borderlands duty. He was at home, training his little apprentice how to speak to mice and songbirds.

Jasperine gave her a concerned look, and Ellena forced herself to relax again. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be back home, Astor puttering about in the kitchen, his apprentice Joyce singing about sunrises, and Brihenna tinkering about with the clock, trying to repair it yet again. Tears welled up in her closed eyes and tracked down her cheeks, and no one commented on it.

*

  
The whole lot had stopped in a clearing a day after entering Sashin Forest, on the excuse of observing Tenday, though Ellena privately suspected that the lord of the troupe was getting ready to pay off the seven mercenaries he’d hired and send them away. They were a few dozen kilometers into Milar, a country known for reclamation iron and rich markets, and the lord probably didn’t want them getting the idea that they could just steal what they liked so that they could be the ones that profited most out of this adventure.

She was proven right when close to midday the seven mounted up and left the clearing with all their possessions. They’d been gifted her armor, too, probably an attempt to bribe them against returning. The lord’s knights seemed to relax after that. _Bully for them,_ she thought bitterly, and mentally went over her exercises for the fifth time that day. She was feeling rather murderous over the total loss of her armor and she was attempting to come to some sort of compromise with herself over her current situation.

Wrapped up in trying to remember the smell of the training yard, the glint of sunlight off swords, the clank of metal and the laughter of good-natured teasing, she nearly missed the whistling call of what she knew to be a ringneck. She carefully did not perk her attention, but she did listen more carefully. Just when she thought she might have truly imagined it, it came again.

She sat up smoothly, calmly, and opened her eyes. Carefully, so as not to attract attention, she moved over to Cordy and sat beside the pale girl. “Don’t react to what I’m about to ask, Cordy,” she ordered softly, barely moving her lips and looking at her lap as she picked at the stitching in her hem. The girl barely nodded her head. Jasperine watched them, alert to the new tension but staying where she was. “Do you still have that nail?”

Cordy’s fingers twitched in surprise, but she smiled very slightly in answer. Ellena sighed and looked away, leaning back on her hands. If one of them happened to land nearer to Cordy than was natural, who was to notice? The girl shifted, and somehow the metal, warmed by her body, slid up under Ellena’s hand. That slight of hand was incredibly skilled, and Ellena admired Cordy all the more for it. She hoped to be half as casual as she hid the nail in the chafing corset.

Breathing deep, she allowed a small sense of pleasure to thrill through her as she whistled out a confirmation call. The guards were used to her whistling by now, and paid her no heed. After another nerve-wrackingly long moment, the ringneck whistled back, a signal to be ready.

Fighting a smirk and the rising hope in her chest, she moved back to Jasperine and settled in to nap. Tonight, there would be a ruckus.


	2. The Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, bigger chapter today. I changed a couple lines in the first chapter to include her armor being lost for good. I had kinda waffled over that for a bit.

“Glad those murks are gone,” the boy, once again on guard duty, piped up in the still of the camp after most others had gone to bed. The long-suffering old man that seemed to be in charge of him let out an impatient sigh and ignored him. The hush of the camp seemed to envelope his words like a wave, giving the sense that they’d never been spoken. The boy shifted.

The captives were pretending to sleep; Ellena could tell from their breathing. Somehow, all of them had picked up from her that there was something going on out there in the forest, beyond their knowing but with a sliver of hope attached.

Ellena tried desperately not to fidget with the nail. She was hoping to cut down on time by picking the simple lock on the door when hell broke loose, but it was a very exposed door. It was but bars, set in more bars. The only closed side was the wall near the front of the wagon, preventing captives from strangling a driver. The only relief from the elements was a ragged canvas tarp tossed carelessly over the top, hardly secured.

To distract herself, she opened her eyes a hair, glancing about, trying to determine the best escape route, or if she could get to, Yort, her horse. The big gelding was picketed with the rest, though with rather more securing than the others required. He was smart. He knew who his person was, and he was a trained warhorse besides. It was probably a wonder to them how he’d snapped his first ropes the night she’d been captured. She was pretty sure he was biding his time now, just as she was.

It was the watching him that alerted her first to a change in the area. His neck arched and his ears perked, then swiveled behind him. She allowed herself a small smile. A raven called raucously amid the trees, and the boy startled so hard he dropped his spear. Jasperine, behind Ellena, stiffened in surprise, but did not make a sound. Ellena took her hand and squeezed it, happy now that she had accepted their invitation to sleep in the girl pile.

The snap of a twig sounded. It was, she thought, a testing of the waters. Who was on edge and who was lazy? The boy twisted his head to the side so fast she heard vertebrae pop. “Did you hear that?” he asked his mentor in alarm.

“Just a rabbit or something, lad,” the man grumped. “Stop jumping at shadows.”

Nevertheless, the man had a hand on his sword.

The wind picked up. The tarp shifted and a tie broke, sending the thing skewing towards the back, partially covering the door. One of the guards behind her shifted, she presumed to watch the tarp, then swore softly and slapped at his leg, as if to swat a mosquito. A second later she heard those two shift, then slump, then hit the ground.

“Did you hear _that_?” the boy asked again, turning. He was greeted by the eerie sight of six pairs of eyes glittering at him in the dark. Ellena could see the fear growing in him like a snakeplant. “Hey, Danga?”

But Danga was already on the ground as well, snoozing pretty soundly. Why the boy was not yet joining him confused Ellena. Unless… unless he was immune to the drug. Some were. She swore mentally and rushed the bars, grabbing his collar as he started to cry out. She brought her fist down atop his head in a smooth motion, knocking him out cold. She let go of him, heard the nail fall from her fingers onto the floor of the cage as he crumpled to the ground.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she whispered, searching for the nail. There were noises from the tents, men coming out to see what the problem was. Cordy and Basil were helping her look, and Jasperine was herding the other two up closer to the door. Now there was an outcry happening, and Yort was screaming in anger, trying to break loose.

Basil let out a noise of triumph and brandished the nail in Ellena’s reach. She snatched it and glanced around, assessing the situation. Some men were scrambling into their armor, while others merely took up weapons. Their attention was pointed somewhere in front of the wagon where she couldn’t see, blocked by the wall. No one was paying any attention to them. With the sound of metal clashing, she could hardly blame them.

Grinning, she got to the door in seconds. She took a deep breath to calm down, and made herself slowly put the nail into the lock, picking with all the care she could muster. Lockpicking was not just a matter of inserting bits of metal and ta-da! These were complicated devices. The tumblers required a delicate touch, a steady hand, a --

The lock clicked and fell open, to Ellena’s complete and utter surprise. She grabbed it, angry with it, to inspect it, and discovered the cheapest thing she’d ever seen. Why, she probably could have pulled it open with her bare hands! Irrational fury swept her, and she put the damn thing down her bodice. The audacity!

In the next second, Basil was starting to open the door. Ellena stopped her with a touch and put her fingers to her lips. “We stick together,” she murmured, for a whisper would not have been heard above the clamor. She pointed toward the trees near the horse pickets, where she could just see a splash of red on a branch. “Head that way. We walk first until we are spotted, then we run.”

She waited for them to nod, then ushered them out the door. She dropped to the ground last and crouched, pleased to see Basil watching for a good moment before leading the women off across the camp, keeping to the shadows. Heart pounding, Ellena walked casually along, as if she belonged there. They wound between the tents, and she spared a moment to steal. A dagger forgotten beside a fire, a cloak hanging from a tentpole, _her boots_ , which she discovered hanging out behind a saddle, which was also hers. She took the whole damn mess and handed it off to Jasperine, who stuck close.

Yort still had his blanket on. The girls all paused when she did, throwing the saddle on and quickly buckling it. The horse snorted happily and slimed her hair. Good ol’ Yort. He’d already broken his bindings but had waited for her. She patted him, then gave her boots over to Cordy, and the knife to Basil. “Put those on, Cordy. Basil, cut the rest of the horses loose.”

The girls had barely finished when they were noticed. A cry went up, and Ellena swore.

Something had changed in her the last few days. Before, she would have mounted Yort immediately and left the girls to run by themselves. Maybe she would have pulled one other up with her. Now, though… they were her friends. She shoved Smitter up into the saddle, then handed up Katta to her. Katta would have been the slowest anyway. The bigger girl gave her a grateful smile, and they took off, amid Ellena and the other three smacking and scaring the remaining horses into flight.

They ran, the men not far away, along the ridge that edged the field behind the campsite. Ellena was heedless of the pebbles and sharp grasses that cut her bare feet, focusing on the bit of red in the trees that could only be Egron, Astor’s ringneck parrot. They were halfway across the clearing -- Yort was almost to the trees -- when two things happened almost at the same time.

The first was that Yort jerked and let out a scream, rearing up. In that second, Ellena could see an arrow sticking out from between his ribs, buried almost to the fletching. Time seemed to slow as she noticed the culprit, a starklander with blood running down one side of his face, down in the gully below them. Smitter and Katta were falling out of the saddle as Yort danced in pain. They were falling into the gully.

Ellena heard a woman scream, or several, she wasn’t sure. At the same time, or maybe a breath after the arrow had struck, a blinding light from behind them illuminated the whole scene in sharp detail. She was still running towards them, but not fast enough. Yort was overbalancing, the girls were falling, then all three went over and plunged down into the rocky hole.

By the time she reached the spot on the ridge where they had been, it was too late. Yort lay twisted at the bottom, his neck at the wrong angle. Smitter and Katta were loosely curled around each other, staring blankly up at the stars. Smitter’s mouth was slack, and Katta’s face was bloody and _wrong_. The only movement down there was the weak struggling of the archer, crushed under Yort’s dead weight. Ellena, in shock but recovering quickly, wanted nothing more than to kill him.

She’d always struggled with her anger, but the fury that rose up inside her, making her see red, was unlike anything she’d experienced before. She was just about ready to climb down to end the man when Jasperine seized her hand, stalling her after the first step. Basil was sobbing, and Cordy was crying silently.

“We have to go,” Jasperine said, probably for the second time. Ellena looked back. The men were on the ground, clutching at their eyes. The blinding light had faded, so they had a little time before their sight came back. She shoved her anger away into a place she could use it later, and herded her new friends into the trees.

*

“Baby, don’t cry.”

Ellena looked up into the branches above them. They’d stopped somewhere in the woods, having run to breathlessness and beyond. She panted, hands on knees, as a bright red parrot with a ring of black around his neck and a cap of purple made his patient was down a trunk. He was somewhat comical, using his beak just as much as his feet, and he stopped at face level to stare her right in the eye.

“Baby, don’t cry,” he repeated, and she realized that her cheeks were indeed wet. She offered her hand and he gravely stepped up onto her fingers, feet warm and dry. She didn’t bother hushing him, for she was sure that pursuit had lost them.

“Where do we go, Egron?” Astor’s parrot. He was close, he had to be.

“Follow ‘Moira,” the parrot instructed. A caw scraped the air, then, and a large raven skimmed over their heads, landing a little downhill. Amoira, Astor’s raven, was a glossy, handsome thing, her legs bedecked with leather bands embroidered with blue threads, the color invisible in the dark but well-known to Ellena’s eyes.

Her companions looked unsure, in various states of grief, but she firmed her features and nodded. “We follow the raven, my friends. She’ll lead us to safety.”

This journey was tougher than their first flight through the forest. That had been fueled by adrenaline, reacting in the moment. Now they could feel every cut, bruise, and sprain. The only one not limping was Cordy, and several times she tried to offer the boots to one of the others. Basil carried on a quiet monologue of complaints, which actually bolstered their spirits a little, for she had quite the vocabulary and was particularly inventive in her curses.

Jasperine kept hold of Ellena’s hand as much as possible. She could understand how all that had happened was overwhelming even for her, much less a country dairy maid. But Jasperine didn’t complain. She just grimly pressed on alongside her, eyes on the raven that glided from one tree to another.

At one point they wanted to stop at a spring to drink, but Ellena made them move on. Most water sources in the starklands were not to be trusted. Basil argued with her at first, but gave in. No one wanted to catch an illness, even if they were desperately thirsty.

Minutes later Ellena spotted a cool, blue light through the trees, and her knees nearly gave out in relief. Amoira broke into raven chuckling, and Ellena could hear familiar voices exclaiming. “Don’t be afraid,” she told the others, stepping forward.

A tall man met them at the entrance to a very small clearing. Gangling, slim, with a long face and ears that stuck out. It was the most welcome face she’d hoped to see, and with a glad cry from both of them, she rushed into his waiting arms. She couldn’t stop crying, so relieved it hurt. Astor, her beloved, had actually come for her.

She was dimly aware of the others being gently welcomed into the little camp. She was too busy kissing Astor’s stupid, horsey face to take much notice. He laughed and pulled her out of the woods, then got her settled on a smooth, large stone near the heat. She was given good broth and all the water she could tolerate, and only then did she take stock of her surroundings.

Everyone was gathered around the cool light of a heatbox. It glowed blue as moonlight through the rounded slits on its sides, but radiated a pleasant warmth that drove off the spring night chill. The light softened everything it touched: The tired faces of her girls, huddled under blankets and clutching mugs, bewildered and confused by their rescue. Around them were the welcome faces of her squadron.

Her captain, D, was in whispered discussion with Morny, their second. Bastile, their resident healer, was tutting over Jasperine’s feet, cleaning and bandaging them carefully, while Verdant, the biggest of them, kept the mounts calm. Rodger, a scout, was crouched beside her, and when he caught her looking, he smiled. “Good to have you back, Morthan.”

“Thanks for the distraction,” she replied. He laughed.

“We _were_ going to get you out of the cage, but you’re far too crafty.”

She shrugged, still emotionally sore over the loss of two girls and her damned horse. All she wanted right now was to curl up and sleep, to give distance to her grief. She dozed against Astor’s warm, bony side for a while, letting time slide by without awareness of it. The bite of the corset finally woke her, and she sat up, unable to stand it anymore. She dug under the cloak and blanket, untying the thrice bedamned garment. Astor watched her curiously, and when she chucked the whole stupid affair across the clearing, soft laughter followed. Captain D looked up and cleared their throat.

“Right then,” they said evenly, though a slight wrinkling near their eyes told her that her captain was amused. “I think that means Ellena is ready to move on. Shall we?”

The girls woke from dozing as well, and Cordy stifled a cry of alarm as what had previously looked like a rangy boulder on the treeline shifted and stood. The griffon cocked his head and ruffled the grey feathers that covered most of his body, pointed ears perked. He was really a beautiful creature, though she could understand the girls being frightened by him. Griffons in the wild were far stupider than civilized ones, and though they were usually solitary predators, like the pumas and falcons they took their genetic structures from, they were less afraid of humans.

Crider, as this one was called, gave the girls a wide berth and came over to his human. Astor smiled and scritched him behind the ears, eliciting a purr from the massive creature. “Crider’s going to carry you, Ellena. No need to walk on your cut up feet.”

She was grateful. She’d barely noticed Bastile fixing them up, but they still hurt. Climbing up atop the welcome warmth of the birdcat, his saddle made of the nicest leather, was almost like crawling into her bed at home. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay awake,” she admitted.

Astor smiled reassuringly and began to strap her in. “No worries. You just rest and let Crider do the work.”

Around her, the other eight members of the squadron were helping the girls onto various mounts. Jasperine was sitting in front of Verdant atop his bulky elk, Moose. Gallant Trelail was giving Cordy a hand up onto her warhorse, and Basil was eyeing little Sorna’s peryton with suspicion. She was saved from it by Caldwel on his own horse.

With everyone secured and the camp packed up -- griffons couldn’t carry two, so Astor was on Bastile’s elk with the healer -- they moved off into the forest again, following a game trail. And though she wanted nothing more than to pepper Astor with questions, Crider was far too soft and comforting to allow her to stay awake. She pillowed her head on her arms across his neck and breathed in his musty-dry bird scent. Within moments, she was drowsing again.

*

Near dawn they stopped again at the edge of the forested land, letting Rodger and Sorna, their scouts, range out to make sure they weren’t being followed and that their path was clear. An hour later, Sorna reported a clear path and they headed north along the treeline until they hit a proper road, though it was a bit crumbly with centuries of neglect but still dark against the dirt. She wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t seen it from the path the slavers had taken, for it had been cut behind a long series of hills.

At midday they stopped to rest, finally. Ellena and her girls were settled under a tarp pitched against the hill. All of them save Ellena and Jasperine were asleep in seconds.

Ellena stared out over the landscape for a long while, undisturbed even by Astor, until Jasperine came up beside her. “Who is that man?” she asked, nodding her head at Ellena’s stork man, who was being crawled upon by his two birds while the griffon preened him affectionately.

She smiled. “That’s my husband, Astor Veltan ne Morthan.”

Jasperine looked vaguely disappointed in the answer, and Ellena tried not to feel too irritated with the girl. “The others are all part of my squadron, designated False Flight. We are knights of Their Majesties, the monarchs of Foxhall-on-the-Lake.”

Jasperine gave her a shy glance. “Do we get to go there with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Ellena responded without thinking, then frowned. Population control in the capital was a tricky balancing act, for the island city had limited space. Even expansion on the shore was kept strictly limited, for the surrounding area had to support it. Well, it wouldn’t hurt for them to petition citizenship. And if they were denied, there were many other good towns and cities where they could be safely installed, and would be very welcome.

She sighed, suddenly heartsick. Surely three girls could not be too terrible an addition? But then, it was thinking like that that overtipped the population. “Actually, I don’t know. You can definitely become citizens of Halind, but I don’t know if you’ll be accepted into Foxhall itself. Your chances will be better if you can display useful skills, or if you get deputized into some group or other.”

Jasperine watched her raptly. “What sort of skills? What groups?”

“Well, experience in dairy is not really something that is needed overall in Foxhall, though there is always call for kitchen maids or pages. As for signing up with a group, you need recommendations. I can give you one, of course, but you’d need two more from people not affiliated with me, and one of those needs to be from someone already a member.”

Jasperine sighed and buried her chin in her folded arms, knees pulled up to her chest. “I don’t want to be a dairy maid… Isn’t there any other way? School?”

“You could apply for the school, yes. Or you could get married.”

Sorna crouched down beside them. “Or you could apply for temporary sanctuary based on what you all just went through. The government is required to house refugees of violent or traumatic action until such a time as they can resume a normal life.”

Ellena perked up. “Ah, Sorna! I love your rats nest of a brain for law. That’s an excellent idea. And I insist that the three of you stay with me during that time. I have the space for it.”

Astor ambled over, Egron on his shoulder. “Are we taking in strays, love?”

She sighed and pushed at his legs. “Ignore the walking stick, Jasperine.”

Jasperine giggled a little, and Ellena was happy to see her in seemingly good spirits. She badly wanted to forget that the past few days had happened and hoped that the time it took to get home passed quickly.

*

The journey was at once too slow and yet, before she knew it they were in the mountains above Castel Valley. She shifted in the saddle as Crider crawled across the rocks to the side of the road, and she joined Rodger at the front of their line. He was a perfect scout, really, lightly built and overall shades of brown that made him blend into most landscapes if he stayed still. In fact, he brought to mind his mount, a ruddy blacktail deer.

They were at the peak of the trail, the mountains opening up to either side of it. The roar of water and a gentle mist invaded her senses, and she breathed in deeply as they came in sight of the huge dam to the right. On the other side was the water out of the mountains, though some came from the starklands, contaminating it. The water that was allowed through the dam was completely clean, falling halfway down the face of the dam into the valley below.

It was a valley only by the technicality that it was a low space surrounded by mountains, even if the southern mountains weren’t precisely visible most days. The valley floor was a patchwork of neat farms and carefully tended forests leading up to the highlight of the landscape: Foxhall-on-the-Lake.

The city was a beautiful, three-tiered affair, piled atop a hilly island like a scattering of jewels, just offshore of the expansive lake that started where the river left a bend. A whimsical bridge in a straightened Z shape connected it to the mainland, where a sprawling market town spread out along the shore. Gardens broke up the colors of the buildings, and the tops of most roofs were green with something growing. A series of tiny islands spread out behind the island city, sporting beautifully crafted wind-catchers, looking like so many birds coming to nest on a larger island bristling with the things.

At the highest point stood a great castle, exactly how one would think of a fairytale setting. Ellena was educated, so she knew that according to records, its design was heavily influenced by Jermun and Inglesh designs from over the ocean. After the castle complex -- which housed the University, too -- the next tier, twice as big, sported the library, the housing for the army and scribes, and the homes of nobles from the Gold Book.

The lowest, and largest, tier took up the majority of the island, devoted to crafters, public service works, general housing for citizens, taverns, markets, eateries, inns, theaters, the pleasure district, and the noble houses of the Silver Book. A small harbor was hidden on the south side of the island, along with a penninsula left green.

Closer to them was a town, partially hidden in the hills, the castle there built into the side of a cliff, and the walls so thick and high they were foreboding. It was a town that meant business, and it guarded the river and the road they were on well.

She heard gasps behind her and turned to grin at the girls. Like any Halinder, she was proud of Foxhall, and it deserved that pride. When all the world was falling apart, Foxhall was the shining jewel of a culture that was advancing. It was most satisfying to see the looks of amazement and wonder on their faces, for there was nothing so beautiful as Castel Valley out there in the starklands.

The cliffside castle was the Barony of Larrid, and they were forced to stay there the rest of the day. False Flight squadron was debriefed and everyone was gone over by healers, even the mounts and Astor’s animals. The girls stayed mostly quiet, confused and awed by all the equipment that the healers used. Ellena suffered it with her usual silent frustration, letting them prick her with needles, draw blood, make her cough, and scan her down.

Ellena was made late by it to help the girls with their citizenship registration papers, and she rushed along the cold stone hallways to get to the office they’d been stashed in. Turning a corner, she ran straight into someone coming the opposite direction, skewing her into a wall. Her insult died on her tongue when she saw who it was: Baron Coliss, the tall, imposing ruler of Larrid. She answered only to the Sovereigns and their Ducets. The woman was known for her fierceness in battle, and Ellena had admired her greatly when she’d been a page here. Now… well, their opinions of each other were strained.

“Sif Morthan,” Coliss said tersely, greeting her with a small, tight nod.

“Baron,” Ellena replied, bowing the proper amount and not a bit more. An awkward silence followed, filled with narrowed eyes and thinned lips, which she broke. “If you’ll excuse me, I have duties to attend to.”

She fled before the eagle-like woman could pin her down, but felt eyes on her back long after she’d turned the corner.

*

As they approached the outskirts of the shoreside of Foxhall, the girls chatted excitedly. It was morning, and a finer spring day never existed, with the bluest sky, small puffy clouds, and birdsong full of cheerfulness. Even Ellena’s spirits were lifted, especially since she was so close to home.

She watched her girls closely, seeing in them a change in character that she hadn’t seen in the cage. Basil had traded the ragged skirts for trousers, loose ones that tucked into her boots. She wore also a military issue shirt and a vest, and had bound her chest down under them after seeing an archer or two on the walls that did the same. She’d already made friends with them, and had a letter of recommendation for the official archers from them after having proved herself a natural shot.

Cordy had been taken up by one of the noble’s daughters in their short time in Larrid, who had dressed her in a lovely sky-blue gown and brown suede walking boots. Her blonde hair had been washed in rosewater and styled in the latest femme fashion, braided into a crown around her head with little ringlets hanging around beside her ears. Her face glowed with perfect cosmetics, and a simple moonstone hung around her neck on a golden chain.

Stuck to Ellena’s side still, Jasperine looked lovely in tight brown breeches, a green shirt with full sleeves, and a tunic to match the breeches. The outfit was very similar to Ellena’s own, though she was dressed in the military black and blue.

There was a moment when Basil called Jasperine away to show her the wares of a traveling peddler, and Astor sidled up to his wife. “She certainly seems attached to you. Are you sure you can afford that?”

“It’s just an innocent crush, Astor,” she grumped, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know how to deal with them. I’m not encouraging her or anything like that.”

There was an amused snort behind them and Crider gave them a disbelieving cock of his head. “Oh hush, you featherhead,” she sniped, which made her husband laugh.

“Just… be careful, darling. You know what happened the last time a girl got too attached to you.”

Ellena grinned. “I handled it, didn’t I?” She spread her arms in a gesture of complete honesty, backing up, then turning to herd the girls into the growing number of people.

In the early days of Foxhall, the majority of the markets had been in the bottom tier of the island, but with population growth, many, especially the ones devoted to lifestock, tanning, and other smelly subjects, had moved out to the mainland, making room for more housing in the city proper. False Flight and their charges were given room to advance only by virtue of their crested helms and the size of their mounts, but they still advanced slowly in order to give their charges time to look at things.

Ellena was amused to see that Cordy’s beauty and good nature earned her instant friends and admirers. Children brought her flowers, and vendors freely offered her samples, thinking her a foreign noble. Basil’s keen eyes and quick observational skills were in overdrive, trying to look at everything at once, and Jasperine had to more than once be dragged away from stalls where books were piled, even though Ellena knew the girl couldn’t read. A bibliophile in the making, that one.

It seemed like hours before they broke through the festive atmosphere of the markets and came to the bridge. The guards there marked them down in their logs, but otherwise made no move to stop them. The footsteps of both humans and beasts echoed in the splendid tunnel, for the wide bridge was covered by a clever trough; in times of war or defense, the trough could be filled with nasty substances, then dumped on the heads of invaders. It was held up with gorgeous, delicate arches that left no room for cover. After the first turn on it, walking parallel to the island on the longest stretch, it would be easy to fire arrows into for further defense.

One more turn, and the open gates of the island were visible, taller than three horses stacked atop each other and made of what looked to be thick, lacquered wood bound in iron, they seemed imposing even when not closed, and that happened once every Tenday, so that they could be oiled and kept limber.

“Who is that?” she heard Bastile mutter. Ellena looked more closely into the shadows of the high arch. Indeed, there was a small party gathered there, utterly still. Traffic ahead of them moved respectfully to the side and stopped, and no one passed out of the gates to head onto the bridge. The closer they got, the more nervous she became, for the small party began to resolve into the white and moss-green clad forms of the Oracle’s attendants.

Now, Ellena had nothing against the Oracle. It was very hard to hate her, after all. The Oracle had been choosing the Sovereigns since the beginning, and never once had their been one on the throne that had proved detrimental to Halind. The Oracle predicted the weather rather accurately, and sometimes months in advance, including earthquakes. She helped plan new buildings, roads, and repairs to all sorts of things. She made sure that harvests were distributed fairly. She made sure that no knowledge was lost, though new knowledge had to be found by others.

When you got right down to it, the Oracle was the most intelligent person in all of Halind, possibly in all the world. But what was creepy was that the Oracle was not really an actual person. She had been, once, centuries ago, before the Event. Now she was a ghost, and when she needed to go out and about, she inhabited one of her attendants.

That was what was happening now. As they got closer, guards prevented them from skewing off to the side with the rest of the citizens. They were funneled up to the gate, and the Oracle attendants there. Ellena could see that the one in the center was being occupied by the Oracle. He was a boy of barely sixteen, freckled, small for his age maybe, with a large, purple birthmark over one eye. His hair was a doe brown, and long enough to reach the small of his back. He wore moss-green leggings and a flowy white tunic, gauzy and light, beaded on the edges in iridescent seed pearls, with wide sleeves that dragged the ground. He was barefoot, and wore a crown of white chrysanthemums, sage, and pale irises. But the thing that marked him as the current vessel of the Oracle was the eyes. They glowed with a soft, white light, eerie and calm.

Captain D strode forth first and took a knee before the boy. The rest of the squad and all the observers did the same, and the three girls followed a moment later. The boy put out his hand in an unnaturally elegant gesture. “Rise,” he spoke, but in a voice not his own. Instead, it was that of a women, ethereal and slightly metallic, as if spoken through a metal tube, though it radiated with warmth and caring. “I call upon thee, Cordy Green, to come forth.”

Murmurs started, but none were as surprised as False Flight. Cordy looked utterly bewildered, so Ellena nudged her forward. “Attend the Oracle, Cordy,” she whispered. The others guided her to the front of the group, and Captain D advised she take a knee in reach of the boy.

Pale, pretty Cordy, green eyes wide with emotions Ellena could not hope to start identifying, stepped forward and knelt before the inhabited boy. The Oracle raised his hand up into the air, and called out clearly, “Hail and witness, citizens of Halind. Oracle declares Cordy Green to be known as a princef, and an official heir-in-training.”


	3. Cordy Green

_“Always stay quiet,” Mother said, sitting in a beam of sunlight as she stitched together a rag dress on a straw doll. Her hair glowed golden, and Cordy thought she was like Andea, the good spirit that helped lost children find their homes again. “Never leave the house. And do not let a stranger even glimpse you.”_

Cordy had never thought that her life would extend out of her parents’ little mud house, with only the one room and the loft. Her parents had said they’d had children before her, but their lord had taken each one to be sold into slavery or raised as soldiers. As they told the tale, when she’d been born she hadn’t made a sound, and the tax collector had not yet made his rounds, so he did not know that another pregnancy had occurred. Cordy had been such a quiet baby, in fact, that she never cried or fussed, especially when strangers were near.

By the age of five she had memorized the entirety of the inside of the cottage. Her father had a habit of bringing in junk he’d found in the fields that no one wanted. Some of it had words on it, but none of them knew how to read. She’d always wished fondly to learn. Born and raised a simple serf of the starklands, she didn’t even know how to sign her name.

Thus, her embarrassment, when she was finished being ushered through the city, barely able to see around the graceful people in white and green, to a house on the second tier of the city, and was presented with a ledger and a pen. She flushed and looked around at the serene, expectant faces. “I… I don’t know what this is,” she admitted.

Thankfully, that boy with the glowing eyes did not inform her; instead, a girl close to her own age stepped a little closer. “It is the list of the current heirs-in-training, Miss. I am a notary. Would you like to authorize me to sign for you?”

But even though Cordy came from simple origins, she was not to be herded about and told what to do.

“Please, could you take a moment to explain this to me?” When she got confused looks, she put out her hands in entreaty and tried to elaborate. “I am from far away. I was… sheltered. I don’t know what a princef is, o-or an heir-in-training. Heir to what?”

An older man with an elaborately stitched eyepatch spread his hands wide and replied, “Miss, you have been chosen by the Oracle, our guiding light, to join a special group that are being trained as heirs for the throne of Halind.”

She gawked at him, unable to help it. Her jaw worked for a moment, and only a squeak made its way out. When she finally found her voice, it came out with an embarrassing crack. “But I’m just a serf!”

For a moment she thought she saw something flicker between them, unspoken yet eloquent. A few hid smiles. She almost became angry when the man spoke again. “There are no serfs in Halind, Miss Cordy. Whatever you were outside our country, you are now a citizen here. Any citizen of Halind may be chosen to be an heir. You are not the first to come from humble origins, though… you are the first starklander.”

“So… I will be as a puppet? Trained and set on a throne?” This was all so sudden, she could not help but react with skepticism. She knew the tale of Bardis the Princess, who was victim of an evil advisor, putting her under a spell of control from the day of her tenth birthday, his voice coming out as hers.

“Of course not,” he replied, kindly she thought. “There is no guarantee you will actually be asked to take the throne. This program is meant to train all promising young people to administrative positions. You may instead be a diplomat, a member of the council, or any number of things that requires knowledge, tact, and wisdom.”

That seemed to take the pressure off. Cordy sighed and ran her hands through her hair. The whole affair seemed a very good offer. She’d wanted to learn, to go to school. Even as a child who knew nothing of the world but stories, she’d dreamed of going out and doing great things. This was her chance, handed to her freely.

It would be hard work. She knew that in her heart, for her father had told her many times that nothing worth achieving comes easy. But she had one more question. “Will I… still be able to visit my friends? Basil and Jasperine and Ellena? The False Flight?”

Again, that flash of amused, silent communication. “Yes. We will not keep you captive in a tower.” He smiled with calm charm.

That decided her, though she still had reservations on the whole affair. Some spirit had chosen her for this, and spirits were to be respected, but she was still a nothing girl from nowhere. Still, a good feeling was growing in her chest, bubbling up and bringing excitement with it. She nodded to the notary. “Then you may sign my name.”

The young woman smiled and set pen to paper, writing in a neat but swirly fashion that fascinated Cordy. She inspected the series of swirls, delighted to know that they meant her. A certain sense of self was tied to them, and she was determined to learn these things as quickly as possible.

After that, most of the group wandered off, leaving Cordy in the company of the man with the eyepatch. As he tidied the writing things up and put up the ledger, she inspected him. He was tall, with the solid build of a born fighter, much like the men of the slaver gang, but she could tell by his hands that he was not used to holding a sword. They were elegant, long, and showed none of the calluses those men had had, though there were some tiny burns here and there that she did not understand. He had grey in his brown hair, cut moderately short, and his face was lined with some age, though she could not have guessed how old he was.

The eyepatch covered his left eye, and she could just see the sliver of his right from this angle, a pale, clear blue like a smooth piece of glass her father had brought to her one day. He probably would have been perfectly ordinary if not for that eye.

He glanced at her and she looked away quickly, blushing. She could feel his amusement in the air, much like those moments between him and the others. “Now you are an heir-in-training. Come in here, and I will tell you what that means, since you were not raised to know these things.”

He led her into a parlor, quite the most luxurious room she had ever been in. It was redolent in cream, sage, and robin’s egg blue, with all woods in the same dark stain. Simple lace, faintly patterned fabrics, plaster reliefs, and silver fixtures all came together in a style that was at once too complicated to immediately take in and formed a relaxing whole. He gestured to a couch for her to sit, and she did, admiring the artistry in the clawed feet and embroidered pillows.

“Let me start with an introduction. My name is Orris. I am an attendant of Oracle. What that means is that I, along with all the other Attendants, are above and outside of the government of Halind. We are chosen and taught by Oracle, and serve her in the interest of peace, harmony, and happiness for the whole of the country.”

Cordy pressed her lips together, trying to hold back her questions. Most were half-formed anyways, and she was already out of her depth. She didn’t want to be too rash.

“You will learn more about this in your classes and with a tutor, but I think that a basic rundown of what goes on in the castle will help you adjust faster.” He was momentarily interrupted when a young teenager brought in a tea tray, served them, then left. Cordy had never tasted tea, much less seen a tea service, and watched with fascination. Only when they were alone again did she venture a sip of the milky, sweet drink, and found it to her liking.

“Now then,” he continued, clearing his throat. “In Halind we always have four Sovereigns. These four are married by law, devoted to their duty as administrators of the law, justice, and everything that goes along with it.”

Cordy stared at him, disbelieving. “Four people married to each other?” she blurted. “The arguments must be legendary!”

He broke out into abrupt laughter, setting his cup down to avoid staining the fine rug. She flushed again. “What a refreshing perspective,” he gasped. “Ah, but it is true. Depending on their temperaments, the arguments can get pretty heated. And compound onto that the consorts, too.”

“Consorts?”

He nodded briefly and straightened himself out. “Yes. Because the Sovereigns marry for political reasons, they are allowed to have consorts for their own love and pleasure. Sometimes two or more of the Sovereigns are actually devoted to each other, but most are just good friends.”

“It seems awfully complicated,” she murmured, shyly picking out a small cake from the tray on the table between them. It tasted brightly of lemon and buttery pastry, and she nearly closed her eyes with how sweet and wonderful it was.

“It is. Which is why there is always one of the Attendants here chosen to act as a royal mediator of private affairs. Currently, that is myself. I have served our current Sovereigns for seventeen years, since they took their thrones.”

“What happens if one of the Sovereigns dies?” she asked hesitantly, taking another little cake. This one tasted of berries.

“Well, that depends. If it happens near the beginning of their reign, one of their previous fellows may ascend to the empty throne. Sometimes that even happens later on. Usually, when more than ten years have passed and a throne is vacated, the rest elect to step down into retirement and the next four take their place. But if there is a crisis in the country when a Sovereign dies, the remaining ones may continue on as they are until the crisis passes and things can return to normal. And one time, Oracle herself chose a consort to take the throne.”

She considered this over a tiny sandwich light with cucumber and thinly sliced fowl of some sort. “How long do Sovereigns rule?”

“On average? About twelve years. The current ones are rather determined to be on the longer end of the scale.” He gave her a wry smile, and she giggled.

“The Sovereigns generally like to take on specific duties. For instance, there is always one that is in charge of all military matters. Another is in charge of all schooling and academic things. One more takes on public affairs, and the last is dedicated to all financial matters. All of them sit on the council as well, with those nobles of the Gold Book who are the parriarchs of their families.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry, but there are a few words I don’t understand. What is the Gold Book? And what is a parriarch?”

He set his cup back on its saucer with barely a sound. “Ah yes, I forgot that in the starklands archaic gender rules are still enforced.”

This did nothing to enlighten her, and her puzzled look prompted him to continue after a bite of food. “Out there, people see each other as a man or a woman, and nothing else. Men are in charge, and women make the babies, correct?”

She nodded and he sighed, shaking his head. “Ridiculous. Halind is founded on the idea that all people are essentially equal, no matter what accident of birth made them. You will find that we have four different sets of pronouns, and more than a dozen genders. It will be confusing at first, but you’ll get the hang of it. If you don’t know what pronouns to use, then just use them, they, and their until someone lets you know the correct ones.”

She still wasn’t quite on track with this explanation, but she felt that requests for further elaboration would just be more confusing. She’d learn how to be a Halinder in due time.

“But to answer your questions, a parriarch is the neutral term for the head of the household, and the Gold Book is the list of noble houses that date back all the way to before the Event. The Silver Book lists all the noble houses that came after, and you will find that even in the Silver Book, the nobles divide themselves into elder houses that were initiated in the first days after the Event, and any houses added anytime in the last three hundred years.

“But that is not something you’ll have to deal with for a while. Noble politics frankly give even me a headache.” He seemed to be making a joke, so she laughed a little with him, but she really didn’t understand it. An awkward silence followed, and she nibbled a sandwich tasting of liver sausage and some nutty green paste that was smooth on her palette.

“So,” she began, hesitant to break the silence. “What is this place?” She gestured around the room, though she meant the entire house.

He cleared his throat and nodded. “This is just one of a few different properties for the use of Attendants. Oracle would like you to stay here for a few days while we help you acclimate to Halind, then we will escort you up to the heirs’ hall.”

The room Cordy was given to sleep in was larger than her parents’ house, and was filled with light from a gable window with three panels stretching up high above her head. She’d never seen so much perfectly clear glass in her life. The theme of the room was white, silver, and lavender, and the bed was so soft that she felt smothered by it. After she was left to recover from her journey and the events of the day, she took the biggest pillow off the bed and curled up in the late afternoon sunlight.

So she was a princess now, technically. She’d discovered that like the word parriarch, princef was a neutral term. It seemed this place had a lot of words like that, and all sorts of words she’d never even imagined to describe people. While the system was baffling, she was terribly interested to learn all about it, but she knew that the first lesson would have to be reading and writing, though it seemed impossibly far away. If only Ellena could explain things to her, perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult.

Cordy could remember a time in her life when she was very small and wished to be a princess. Her mother would tell her stories about magic, royalty, strange creatures, and adventure. Cordy would listen raptly, clutching her little grass doll with it’s scrap dress that was sort of pink, wishing with all her heart that she could be that mythical Princess. In some of her less charitable times, she’d pretend that her real father was the king, and that the reason she never got caught was because he had told the tax collectors to ignore her. Someday, she thought, he would vanquish the evil wizard that required her to be hidden, and then come take her away to his palace.

But she was fifteen now, and her parents were dead. There, she could admit it to herself. They’d been killed and made examples of. She’d been made an example, too. She ran her finger over the puckered scar on her arm. They’d made sure to tell her that it was the symbol of an orphan, and was normally on paperwork, but for her they were going to remind her every day. In that moment, dreams and pretend had died in her heart.

And yet…

And yet here she was, in a lavish room filled with warm sunlight, in a fine dress, a princess. Had she not met a griffon? Didn’t she witness the healers and their magic? Surely the past few weeks counted as an adventure. She was living a fairy tale, but it wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

Halind, she suspected, took glee in smashing the tired old tales and rebuilding them in nearly unrecognizable configurations. The children of the king weren’t the absolute next in line for the throne. Instead, anyone could be a king or a queen! Come to think of it, there were probably Sovereigns that were like kind, firm Captain D, whom no one had ever called he or she, but always they. That whole journey, she hadn’t understood, but now she did. What did one call someone that was neither king nor queen?

She smiled and shook her head, unable to account for it in her limited experience. Already she’d seen enough wonders to last her ten years. People riding deer -- and one a deer with wings! -- or griffons. Astor, who was able to talk with birds mind to mind. Water so clear and sweet tasting that her new friends would drink nothing else unless they were celebrating. For all she knew, elves walked this land, and unicorns blessed babies with their horns every full moon!

To that amusing thought did she begin to drowse, and when she fell into sleep she dreamed of white rabbits with a single horn each dropping pearls into the cups of the Sovereigns, who then blessed each well and river with a single drop to make them clean.

*

She awoke to a gentle knocking at her door. Still half asleep, she made a questioning noise, which seemed to be enough for her caller. The sun was no longer up, but it wasn’t yet fully set behind the mountains, and an uncertain pink light cast itself inside her room. The door opened, and she rubbed her eyes as she sat up.

“Dinner will be served in half an hour, Your Highness,” came the soft, feminine voice from the doorway. And there it was, put plain in the words _Your Highness_. Cordy would just have to get used to that, though to hear it for the first time was shocking.

Even more surprising was the appearance of the person who had entered. They were a pale figure overall until they touched a lamp and the frosted glass lit up with a flickering glow. Then Cordy noticed some oddities about them.

The ears were the oddest part. Though they were in the right place, they were not human ears at all, and instead looked like the ears of a deer, perked up alongside the head amid hair that looked pale pink, almost dusty, and a headband of lace roses. Their face was freckled and pretty, with generous lips and a cute little nose, their eyes almond-shaped and a deep magenta in color.

Their frame was slim, graceful as a dancer, but the white, gauzy dress they wore draped oddly over their legs. Their hair nearly reached the floor. Cordy stared in helpless wonder as they went around lighting the lamps with a touch to each, filling the room with a brighter, warm light.

“Would you like to have a bath, Your Highness?” The deerperson seemed unruffled by Cordy’s staring. She shook herself mentally and stood.

“Ah, I suppose so. And please, do call me Cordy. I’m not used to… all this,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the world.

“As you wish, Miss Cordy. If it pleases you, my name is Illusia, and I will be your maid for the duration of your stay in this household. In addition, I will be your teacher in manners, deportment, and culture.” There was a curious lack of something to the way Illusia spoke, though Cordy could not place it.

“Forgive me, but what ah… pronouns do I use for you? I just learned about all this not one or the other thing and I’m not sure how to approach it.”

“I understand you are confused. It is not terribly difficult, though. I identify with female pronouns.” She opened two folding doors into another room and turned on the lights in there as well. Cordy followed shyly, watching from the door as Illusia stepped around a large tub made of lacquered wood, deep and long enough to put a whole person in, and sporting a curved headrest on the back, over which hung bright copper faucets. The latter she fussed with as she spoke, filling the tub with water.

“In noble circles, it isn’t very polite to ask after pronouns. It is expected that one just knows, as nobles are very public figures. Citizens that are not noble do not take offence to merely being asked. In fact, the rougher the company, the easier it is to ask.”

That wasn’t very encouraging, and Cordy sighed heavily.

“Miss Cordy, would you please come in and undress at your convenience?” Illusia was sprinkling petals into the steaming water, a luxury so beyond what Cordy was aware of that she couldn’t even process that it was for herself. When it finally did snap into place she jumped to follow the suggestion.

“Oh! Oh, yes. Sorry.” She came into the room, fiddling with the ties to her bodice.

“Allow me, Miss Cordy.” Illusia’s fingers were sure and deft as she undid the ties and helped her out of the pretty blue overdress, leaving it hanging over a stand in the corner. Cordy declined help out of the underdress, and stood there awkwardly as Illusia put a tray of soaps and towels next to the tub. When she looked up, she gave Cordy an indulgent smile.

“You need to trust me. I am not going to harm you, or make fun of you. In your time here I will be by your side for much of it. You are going to have to get used to the fact that servants exist for a reason, and that they will be around you for the rest of your life.”

Cordy thinned her lips. Back home, nudity was not something she’d ever worried about, but her brief time as a captive had been humiliating and traumatic. She was hesitant to show the scars that marked her now, but Illusia truly did seem like a nice person. It would be easier to test her reception on the serene maid, rather than risk things later on with someone more influential.

She stripped off the long shift in a quick motion, left in a simple chest band and unders. The was a brand on each arm, on the middle, inner point of her forearm. The one on the left was the orphan mark, while on the right was the slave mark. There were scars around her wrists from shackles, and whip scars littered her back, though not so many than she’d seen on the backs of other prisoners in the dungeons.

Illusia remained unfazed, and didn’t even comment when Cordy got into the bath with her undergarments still on. She just pinned Cordy’s hair up efficiently and let her relax, which she did gladly, revelling in the pure bliss of being submerged in hot water. It made goosebumps break out all over her body.

“I think I can be a princess if I’ll get baths like this whenever I like,” she commented, breaking the quiet that surrounded her.

“I take it that Master Orris has explained some of what the princefs learn?”

“A little. I’m guessing it is like school, but with a whole lot more subjects than normal students get.” She watched the petals swirl atop the water whenever she moved her arms, fascinated.

“That is the most basic description, yes. And you will have even more, since you will need to catch up to the level of your peers. It is not impossible, though. Others have been chosen from disadvantaged backgrounds, but learning the basics in this house, blessed by Oracle, you will learn quickly.” Illusia was laying out new unders and fresh garments. With her back turned, Cordy could see that the maid had an upturned deer’s tail below the small of her back, framed by ribbons. “Would you like purple or brown?”

“Ah… Purple?” She wasn’t entirely sure what either dress looked like, but purple was a royal color as far as she knew. Illusia pulled out a gown of lavender with frothy white lace, hundreds of little seed pearls, and embroidery in gold. Overall, it was too rich for her tastes and she shook her head. “I hope the brown is less fancy than that!”

For the first time Illusia cracked a smile as she put away the purple gown in the wardrobe just outside the door, and brought back a fawn brown dress. It was embroidered with gold as well, but on the brown it looked more natural. There was a distinct lack of lace or pearls, and the simple beauty of it struck her fancy. “I like that one better.”

As Illusia laid it, a cream corset, and an extra skirt out, Cordy finally gave into curiosity. “Illusia? What are you?” she blurted, hugging her knees. Before she could be thought rude, she elaborated. “I mean, I’ve never seen anyone with a tail and ears like that. Are you an elf or a fairy?”

“I am not, Miss Cordy, but my kind are called fair folk. We were created by Oracle to serve in her houses and up in the palace, though there are not as many of us left as there once were.”

“Is Oracle one of the Great Spirits?” Cordy asked in awe, for only the Great Spirits had the ability to create life, and as far as she knew they had disappeared long ago, leaving the lesser spirits to meddle as they wished.

“I don’t think she is, but one never can know these things,” was all the answer she got, and no amount of questions could bring any further details.

*

For the first time in her life, Cordy truly understood, on a visceral level, what was meant when people said their brains hurt. That first night they must have taken it easy on her because they knew that shortly she would be personally experiencing in her head what it was like to be an overstuffed sausage. In just three days she had been tutored in all sorts of table manners, poise, fashion, the proper forms for addressing any number of nobles, how to bow to them in varying degrees, the various genders that people identified with and what they all meant, how to recognize the subtle markings of accessories on a noble that indicated pronouns, making polite conversation, and how to refuse or accept the request of a noble.

On top of that she’d had hours of study a day on reading, writing, mathematics, the current popular entertainment, heraldry, history, and the sciences. Most were just the utter basics, meant to keep her from staring silently when asked the names of the planets (she hadn’t know there even were others!) or what the Great Event was. The majority of study was focused on her reading, writing, and mathematics. While she was grateful to the point of tears to be able to learn such things, and she really did seem to be picking them up rather quickly, it all made her feel as though her head wasn’t big enough to contain it all. Every time she closed her eyes she saw numbers and letters swirling in multicolored blackness.

She even dreamed about lessons, though admittedly in odd surroundings. She’d dreamed thus far of a lush garden where everything was gigantic, ruins with metal columns rising up to the sky and broken glass littering the floor, her parent’s farm, though the inside of the cottage was bigger than the outside, the dry, rutted plains that the slavers had taken her through, and, rarely, a white, cool room with lots of light and a bed.

In every dream she was still learning the basic three lessons, but also she could hear Orris speaking with people just outside of view. Though she could not make out their words, she knew in that way of dreams that what they said was important. She always awoke feeling both refreshed, but as though she hadn’t slept enough, and yet the lessons seemed to get easier every day.

Marathon learning was what Illusia called it.

Today was Fiveday, thankfully, and she was being allowed the day off. It was a new custom for her. Out in the starklands the only true days off were Tendays. You worked for nine days, then got a day for religious observation, though a serf only got half a day. In Halind, you worked four days, got Fiveday off (though some employers gave Fourday, Sixday, or Onday off as well), worked to Ninday, then got Tenday off, though here it was not mandatory to observe religion.

Orris had some sort of surprise planned for her afternoon, but her morning was hers to do with as she wished. Though it was tempting to sleep in and lounge about, she’d gotten used to waking up early. Allowing herself an extra hour was practically a luxury, and one she pursued with only a little bit of guilt.

She was too terrified to explore the city on her own. She didn’t even know where Ellena lived, and she desperately wanted to visit. She’d been borne away with hardly a chance to wave goodbye. What if Jasperine and Basil hadn’t been allowed to stay in the city? Had Basil gained a third letter of recommendation so that she could get into the archers? Did her friends disapprove of Cordy’s sudden status?

She picked at her breakfast as she let these questions spin in her head with progressively worse outcomes until Illusia took pity on her and offered to escort her anywhere in the city she wanted. They dressed nicely for the occasion, though the maid wore a veil to hide her ears and a wide skirt to cover her odd, faun-like legs.

Stepping out of the house was like entering another world entirely; the house was the only thing she knew here, and she’d latched on to it like a child would a cradle blanket. Despite all the lessons, being in the house made everything not real yet, so leaving it felt like acknowledging what she now was. This was made doubly clear when people got out of the way of her and the three guards that escorted her, bowing their heads a little. The bows, she now knew, were for a person of unknown rank, but rank all the same. It felt like no one knew she was a fake.

In this part of the city (Second Tier, Oracle district) the roads were not cobbled, but instead were of smooth, unbroken stone, as if they had been carved of the rock of the island. Gutters bracketed the roads, interrupted here and there by clever drains with grills of metal over them. There were several gated houses on their street, but when they turned a corner they found themselves in a large, round space with a small park containing a large statue in the center, and lined with houses and shops. The road went around this park, and as they skirted it along the walkway, she found her gaze drawn to the statue.

Four handsome people stood shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the round. Two were what she’d call more traditionally male and female, the man strong and tall, but smiling the most wonderful smile that invited laughter, and the woman, plump and long-haired, wore an expression of kindness. The other two were more androgynous, the one that favored masculine solemn and intense, while the more feminine one had a bold, manic look about her that spoke of sheathed violence.

“This is the Galewinds Common,” Illusia instructed. “Named for the first four sovereigns. The one facing us,” and here she gestured to the intense, masculine one. “Is King Alecksander Galewind, who designed the entire layout of the city. His true wife, Queen Key, Duchess of Adaira, has the long hair, and she is noted for her education laws. The warrior lady is Queen Angelica Snaketongue, who set the military standards, and the last is King Jay the Crownless.”

“Why is he called Crownless?” Cordy asked absently, looking to his head and the halo of kinked hair.

“You try keeping a crown on all that hair,” Illusia drawled with a dry sense of humor that Cordy hadn’t been aware the maid possessed. “He was known for being very funny.”

They left the round common less than halfway across and started down a large road lined with tall houses set close together or side by side. All sported fanciful architecture, lovely colors, and small, pretty gardens out front. They spread downhill before her, like a gaggle of pretty girls, to a large gate set in walls. Some houses had small shops on their lowest stories, like fancy bakeries or high-end tailors. Trees overhung the street at regular intervals. The farther they went down the steep hill -- in some places climbing down stairs! -- the more shops, people, and noise there was. People shopped, riders on varying mounts shared the street with carriages, and the noise seemed to get caught between the houses and get louder. 

There were a few other folk like her about, islands of peace amid guards in matching tabards, the crowds breaking around them like water. A few of them looked at her with curiosity, but thankfully did not approach her.

Though the large gate was much alike in design to the one to the outside of the city, it was but a fourth of the size, and bedecked with planters of flowers high up. As they passed through, Cordy took note of the design, spotting murder-holes high above her and the lower spikes of not one, but two portcullises.

The street on the other side of the gate continued on in the same vein, though not as steeply. She could just see an even larger round common ahead, bustling in a massive marketplace, when they turned down a shady side street and into less fancy neighborhoods. Despite the lack of carving and ornamentation, these winding and tiered streets had their own beauty. Cordy was charmed by them just as much as the prettier houses.

Their destination turned out to be a shady house near the wall surrounding the second tier, just before the first tower. The property was above them from this street, the wall covered in ivy and overhanging with plants. A staircase was cut into an alcove in the wall, and upon climbing it Cordy could see a lovely house on multiple levels. Part of the roof was given over to more garden, and Cordy could tell this was a place for peace and relaxation.

“Cordy!” came a glad cry from above. Looking up, she spotted Jasperine in a window higher up, happy and healthy. The dark girl waved, then retreated back inside. A moment later, the front door opened, and Astor came out, drying his hands on a cloth.

“Hullo!” he called, coming out to meet them. “Your Highness is looking most beautiful today!”

Cordy smiled, for she could tell his use of her new title was affectionate and not at all mocking. Thankfully, Illusia gestured the guards to watch over everything from outside.

“Astor! It’s so good to see you.” They hugged, though Illusia sighed disapprovingly. “Is Ellena about?”

“No, sadly,” he sighed, leading them inside the house. Cordy was soon engulfed in a sweet-smelling Jasperine, who hugged her tightly. Very soon they were in a bright parlor, having tea and catching up.

Ellena was at a meeting at the Flight headquarters and Astor wasn’t sure when she’d be home. Jasperine had been granted sanctuary in their home, and they were letting her recover while they talked her options over. Basil had been accepted into the royal archers and was now housed among them, and by all accounts was delighted with it.

The little party was joined by Brihenna, who Cordy was amazed to learn was Astor and Ellena’s wife. She was more than a little plump, with skin like cream and hair the color of a pretty sunset. Her eyes were a blue so pale they were nearly grey. She reminded Cordy of the queen from the statue. Brihenna was what they called an Armorsmith, though she saw no heavy hammers or giant tongs among the delicate tools on the woman’s ample belt, and her arms did not look quite strong enough to heft heavy tools either.

Brihenna excused herself early to work on, as she called it, a new suit for Ellena, and Cordy remembered that her old pieces of armor had been given to those horrible mercenaries out in the starklands. Apparently Brihenna was the official armorist for all of False Flight. When she left, Astor sat back with a smile.

“Are you shocked by our family, Cordy?”

“A little,” she admitted, shyly. “I have never heard of a family that could afford more than one wife out in the starklands, but I know that here things are different, and that a wife may be the head of a household and choose whomever she wants no matter their gender.”

“And do you think it strange?” Astor wiped his hands on a napkin and set it aside.

Cordy took a deep breath. “I did at first, but I like the ideas too much. It seems to make much more sense to me, so long as people are hard-working, productive, and kind, insofar as they are capable of being so. I haven’t seen many children here, though, which seems odd.”

“It’s not so very odd, actually. Foxhall is very fashionable and political. This is where laws are made and styles start trending. Most of the permanent population either work here, like the special military units and crafters, or are the council and their families. The rest are either students or those here just for the season, young people and singles or couples looking for partners.

“Children here are either up in the school, or belong to those who can’t afford to send them to the country. You see, the space in Foxhall is limited. It is very expensive to make an island bigger, and it very tactically dangerous to allow the city to expand too far on the mainland. Not only would resources be eaten up too fast, making them expensive, but it would leave the people there exposed should we be invaded. And so, most people who can afford to send their children to the country, either to relatives or to a boarding school that will give them space to run and be free.”

He sighed, looking off out of the window. Cordy tipped her head and wondered if he and Ellena had done the same, sending a child or children out of the city. It would be very sad, she thought, to give a beloved child for such reasons.

Before she could gather her courage to ask, they all turned at the sound of the door opening. Ellena came into the dining room, flush-faced and grinning. “I wondered who was visiting. Hullo, Cordy!”

Cordy rose to hug her, and Ellena laughed. “I am so pleased to see you in a strong place. You’ll make a wonderful princess.”

“I’m not so sure of that, but I want to try.” Truthfully, Cordy still felt as though she was on shaky ground, and her resolve had not hardened yet. To be a princess seemed like a very hard job, and she was not afraid of hard work, but she was afraid that her past would hinder her.

At the end of the visit, too short for Cordy’s comfort and at Illusia’s insistence, Ellena offered to walk her as far as the gate. The maid gave them distance after they went out the back door, going along a quiet road that followed the wall. They passed pretty gardens, houses, commons and sidestreets, a stable. “Ellena?”

“Hm?” Ellena was caught up looking at a group of three people that were walking quietly ahead of them some ways.

Cordy tried to frame her question diplomatically, like she was being taught, but it was difficult. How could she just plain ask if Ellena had children? What if she was barren, or her children were dead? Cordy would feel like a right idiot if she did. Instead, she switched to a different question.

“Jasperine seems very happy in your household. Are you going to keep her?”

Ellena burst out laughing. The people ahead looked back briefly before hurrying on. “Well, who knows! Jasperine is her own person, and I’m sure she has many things she wants to do. If she wants to attempt to woe me, that’s her right. Whether or not I’ll accept her attentions is a question for the future.”

Before she could expand further on the subject, a bird came streaking out of a tree, shrieking and attacking Ellena’s head. Cordy was surprised, but she saw a flash of stripes on the wings. Mockingbirds were trouble anywhere; its nest was probably nearby. She moved to help Ellena shoo the bird off when an arrow clattered into the wall, right behind where she had been a moment before. She let out a yelp, and the guards came running, drawing swords.

The fastest guard went down with a cry, an arrow spearing her calf muscle. Ellena drew her sword and struck down the fearless mockingbird. “You two!” She pointed at the remaining two guards, then at the garden the bird and arrows had come from. “Find that archer!”

They crashed into the garden, and out of sight. Cordy heard a warning for someone to stop, and then pursuit. Illusia knelt beside the guard and wrapped the woman’s leg with her own shawl. Ellena was blowing on a shrill whistle. Cordy felt just as helpless as she had been among the slavers.

A minute later, city guards, dressed in blue tabards and sporting cudgels, ran up to them.

“Assassin,” Ellena hissed at them, looking much like an angry cat, the dead bird in hand. “An assassin made an attempt on Princess Cordigree. Her guards have given chase through this garden and down Virtanu Street, I believe. Someone will need to wait for them here. The princess needs to be taken to a guardhouse.” 

Off in the distance, another whistle pierced the air. Illusia, Ellena, and a pair of city guards helping the wounded one trouped down to a stout building, flanking Cordy and being watchful. Once inside, they all breathed a little easier. The captain himself served them all tea in his office while they waited for more of the guards from the Oracle house to be sent for.

Cordy was, to her shock, not shaking, not scared or intimidated, now that she had a chance to breathe and wasn’t actively being shot at. The event felt distant, important but wrapped in netting. Was she really important enough to warrant such attention?

“That’s what they’re calling you, you know,” Ellena murmured, elbows braced on her knees, hands around her rough mug. “Princess Cordigree.”

Cordy rubbed the sides of her mug, which was white and smooth, barely chipped, the best in the house. “I suppose people thought that Cordy Green wasn’t elegant enough,” she responded, not terribly upset about it. It seemed as good a way to reinvent herself as any other. “Did someone really want me dead?”

It was a grim thought indeed, said like that. People were too few and too precious to outright kill.

“Someone doesn’t want you to even start on this journey, and they want to get rid of you before you are too much a public figure,” Illusia put in, looking rather more pale than usual, but otherwise normal.

Ellena grinned her shark smile. “All the more reason for you to become incredibly visible. When your guards get here, I think we should take this grievance to Their Majesties, don’t you, Illusia?”

The maid’s smile was faint, but her expression no less predatory. “I think that is a very fine idea, Sif Ellena.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was, unaccountably, harder to write than the others. The handling of Illusia was very tough, and the attack on Cordy, too. Both were points I wanted to happen, but hesitated over, and were solved by just writing the damned thing. I hope you enjoy this break from Ellena's point of view, seeing through the eyes of a stranger here.


End file.
